Out of the Black
by pinkcyborg
Summary: Bart is a struggling seventeen year old who invests his time and money in things he shouldn't be. When it comes to his wellbeing, his psychologist attempts to overcome his childhood traumas. Little does Bart know, one of his nightmares is about to come back and haunt him. Bart goes down a journey of self-help and rediscovers his fears. Warning: BobxBart, Violence, Adult Themes.


_Hello and thank you for checking out this fanfiction! This is my attempt at a Simpsons fanfiction that I have always wanted to write. I have been a big S.B fan since 2007. I found this website too late. :( If anybody still enjoys these types of stories, please read the first chapter and leave some feedback. This is is my first ever publish on this website. Hope you enjoy it._

**_Disclaimer: This fanfiction does deal with adult themes such as; self-harm, adult language, male x male, violence and drugs._**

_If this is sensitive for you or does not interest you, that's okay too!_

_Happy reading. If this gets some good feedback I will be happy to post the next chapter._

_Cheers,_  
_Cleo_

* * *

Monday mornings are miserable for most teenage kids the world round. It means the beginning of a new week at school, which can only entail; more homework, more assignments and less time to watch television at home. The holidays were still two weeks away. It felt like they would never come, but Bart Simpson was already imagining the mischief he would create when the time came. It was an easy escape from his studies; dreaming about the places he was going to vandalise, the people he was going to prank, the mates he was going to sing the blues with, the cigarettes he was going to smoke lazily.

For now, however, he would have to sit through the last ten minutes of ancient history. There was nothing enjoyable for him here. He despised the subject, but knew he needed those good grades to segway himself into subjects like carpentry. That intrigued Bart's creative nature. That's where he wanted to be. On the brink of seventeen, Bart was feeling too big for his school shoes. He was ready to get the hell out of this place. It was all he desired. Taking the little jobs would even suffice.

"Guys, please pay attention." Called out Bart's history teacher, Mrs. Lapstone. "Friday will be the last day we are in the library, collectively. That's your last chance to finalise your research for the assignment. It's not hard, guys. This one's just general knowledge and a one-thousand-word essay. It can be done by any-old fourteen-year-old in this school. I can see your panicked faces and I _know_ you will all be fine. Bart, I do worry about you, though."

The class giggled softly into their notebooks as they scribbled notes from the board. Another cheap shot at Bart's expense. Millhouse could only smirk as he shot his eyes over to his friend across the room. Bart was turning red at the cheeks. Though it was true and undeniable, Bart knew he had a track record of being a bit of a slow learner. It carried over from elementary school. Some things just don't leave you, no matter how much you think you've grown up.

"Yeah Bart… a thousand words. I don't think you've ever spoken that many."

Teased Brandon.

The other boys around him grinned at the insult. Bart could only pull a wide smile at his study-buddy Brandon, pretending to be tickled pink by the kid's joke. There was nothing funny about it in Bart's mind. He simply hated history and had not a care in the world for it. He didn't particularly like the boys at his table, either. All five of them were clean-cut kids; glasses, brunettes with clear skin and even tans. They wore the top brands of the month; anything sporty, sleek and simple, keeping up with modern fashion to stay relevant. They were complete geeks in the sense that they were well educated and intelligent boys, but they only liked to mingle with people who were likeminded. Bart was not likeminded.

To what degree this was true displayed itself through Bart's general demeanour. Highschool was the shock that Bart had not seen coming. Once known for being a class clown, he was now quiet and solitary. Only Millhouse could, in detail, describe Bart's evolution into the isolated, young man he had become. The plucky little boy who admired his own self-esteem, crude jokes and overall popularity now hid it deep within him. These days, Bart had his hair a little longer than his mother liked. He wore mostly black hoodies and baggy blue jeans. Bart donned piercings; two in his left ear and one through his right.

The kid had not become a posterchild for the emo scene. He simply displayed his disinterest in his surroundings, out loud, and wanted people to keep their distance. Bart saw himself as matured. Millhouse saw him as damaged. His teachers saw him as lazy and a bad boy. Only Marge, his mother, saw Bart's true colours and attempted to overcome Bart's hurdles.

In previous years, the Simpson family tried taking Bart to therapists, such as a psychiatrist for general help. Bart was advised he had learning difficulties, as suspected. His psychiatrist prescribed Bart with medications that would assist with his A.D.D., diagnosed only two years ago. It was not so much of a shock; it was more of a satisfactory diagnosis. Marge and Homer always knew that there was something stopping Bart from reaching his earnest potential. He was a bright kid in certain areas that other people lacked.

Bart was a strategic kid. He could execute a prank, or solve a mystery, with the help of his sister sometimes. Bart could put his mind to work but only when it required his undivided attention. His classes in high school were not subjects that related to anything spontaneous or devious or even the slightest bit humorous. You couldn't study the art of graffiti, the talents of many-a prankster or the harsh lessons that life gives you.

High school was math, history, geography. The lowest of the lows for Bart in his order of interesting to mildly interesting. The Simpson family made it their goal to get Bart through the initial years with ease. Bart was willing at first but barely accepted his disorder. Then again, Bart would hate his family for putting a label on him. Bart was just… Bart. He wasn't mentally challenged. He had interests that were outside the high-school-education world. Medication wasn't going to cramp his lifestyle. Not on his watch.

Noticing the little impact his medications had on his concentration, and after no more than ten appointments, Bart stopped taking his medication for A.D.D. He believed they were having no true effect. Marge and Homer took Bart's words for what they were and left it at that. Bart was back to being left to his own thoughts at the table of losers that thought he was simple. He couldn't wait for the day to be over already.

Through the low whispering of his class, the lunch bell rang throughout the halls. Finally, a call to freedom. Bart made no hesitations to smuggle his belongings into his tarnished backpack and flee out the classroom. He left nothing but his chair untucked and a pencil on the carpet.

"Bart! Wait for me!"

Millhouse yelled out, but his voice was lost in the chatter that filled the room.

Millhouse lost sight of Bart in the flowing river of bobbing heads. His blonde hair vanished past a pillar with a dozen other kids as quickly as he had left his seat. He was adamant to be somewhere, but where was that? Millhouse was a bit dumbfounded. He had not seen Bart leave class that quickly before. He wondered if it could possibly be the insults from a moment ago. Was Bart taking them seriously? He couldn't be. Those jabs were merely third-grade insults at that. Bart didn't look too concerned or grumpy either. Weird. Millhouse took it in stride however, and simply tossed his backpack over his shoulder. He would catch up with Bart at some point. Right now, Millhouse had to make a b-line to the bathrooms. There was always a que. He wasn't going to be eating lunch anytime soon.

"Uh-oh." Melvin uttered with distaste at what he saw before him. "A que is forming. Don't pee yourself, Milly."

Millhouse shook his head and watched his newly found mate Melvin walk out the classroom. With a small grin, he perked up and followed.

-XXX-

The grounds were littered with kids now. Everybody was in their possies respectably. No two groups mingled or co-formed. Highschool was all about finding your own people. As the stereotypes go, the high school comprised of nerds, cheerleaders, the art students, the card players, chess geeks, jocks and the group of troublemakers. Bart slid in perfectly with that group. They were a conglomerate of teens from all walks of life. Some of the kids were not interested in attending. Some of the kids had no choice due to being carefully watched by the law.

Most of the kids in this group were regularly taking trips to the office to be reprimanded, suspended and or spend the afternoon in detention. It was Bart's kind of crowd. The rebels. They understood him, he was sure of it. He never really asked anybody if that was true, but he knew it was the group he was most comfortable hiding in. He could simply melt into their personality types and disappear.

It was a chilly mid-morning. Everybody was lounging on silver tables and seats. Bags were strewn across their claimed area of the playground like clothing in a teenager's bedroom. The girls huddled together for warmth, like dishevelled penguins in the north pole. They chatted about other 'basic bitches' from neighbouring high schools, clapping their hands with every syllable they uttered. Their acrylic nails and cheap dollar store jewellery clinking and jingling like sleighbells on reindeer. It was all for show. The other girls batted their dramatic fake eyelashes as they laughed to high heaven. Bart watched on with a clear conscious, merely observing them for the hilarity of it. How shallow they looked.

There were girls in Bart's group that were sedentary. He got along with them more than he liked to admit. Bart never wanted to be caught showing interest in a girl, though. Nope. Not cool. He felt high school was not the place to be affectionate. He also guessed he had bigger demons to destroy before getting serious with a significant other. He never wanted his personal life to bleed out into the open waters of high school. The sharks would all come to feed off of him, and then that would be the end.

Bart was putting his phone into the pocket of his black hoodie when Millhouse appeared out the corner of his eye. Millhouse seemed calm, but Bart knew he was going to address what happened after ancient history. Bart watched Millhouse approach, his face steady and neutral.

"Yo."

Bart greeted.

"Hey… where did you race off to?"

Asked Millhouse.

"Sorry, Millhouse. I just had to make an important phone call. That's all."

Millhouse could tell Bart wasn't lying. Bart was honest and ended his words with a soft smile. He didn't want to say what the phone call was about, either. Millhouse was just going to assume it was private.

"Cool."

He replied, returning the smile.

"Sup, Windmill."

Greeted Harry, one of the top dogs in Bart's group.

Harry was a tall guy, toned evenly and dressed himself in neon colours head to toe. Harry was a bit of an odd-bod, but gelled well with the other teens due to his hatred for the rules and his deeper hatred for the teachers. Despite how icy and disrespectful the boys of Bart's group were, they made the exception for Millhouse. A friend of Bart's is a mutual friend of Harry's. This was important.

Harry leant against a pillar next to Bart to stare down on Millhouse. The difference in the two teenagers was obvious. Millhouse was a lot taller now, fuller in the face and mid-section but wasn't unhealthy. Millhouse kept his style plain. Polo shirts and chinos were most comfortable. Opposed to Bart, Millhouse looked like the bigger boy. Bart was thin, lanky and growing at a stunted pace. Thanks to his drug addictions, this threw Bart's hormones out of whack. He was two shades paler than he was as a kid. His lips were dry and chapped. Bart had his clothes hanging off of him some days. He purposely wore his clothing a size or two too big. It was his way of asserting some kind of dominance between his classmates. Like the way in which an animal will protrude a part of their anatomy to warn off intruders or predators, Bart's form of self-defence was to dress mean. He loved it however, because only those who were his equal dared to speak to him. Bart was untouchable.

"What's up with Simpson? He's quiet today."

Harry noted whilst placing a hand on Bart's shoulder to shake him.

Millhouse shrugged his shoulders and furrowed his eyebrows, forcing his hands into his trouser pockets to appear more relaxed.

"I think he is stressed about our history assignment."

"Am not." Bart detested, side-eying Millhouse. "I'm tired. I hardly got any sleep last night. Homer won't fix our fireplace, so the house was rock cold."

"Ice cold."

Corrected Harry.

"Yeah, same fucking thing."

Millhouse sighed. Nobody wants to sleep in a cold room. It was nearing the middle of winter, fair point. Bart shook his head slowly and dumped his head into his hands. Now he was lying, but his attitude just came off as mopey and whiney. Nobody could have guessed that something deeper ran through Bart's mind at that point in time. He was safe to play it up and hide what was really going on behind the scenes. Bart had an excellent poker face.

"Weather's shit today."

Harry mused to make conversation, again.

Bart wasn't going to keep a conversation going this time. Millhouse was too introverted to be himself around Bart's group. If no one was going to pipe up and talk, Harry felt obliged to speak. When he did, Millhouse only nodded and glanced towards the girls with a hum, as they gossiped and laughed, finding anything to escape the awkwardness.

"Hey, Bart. I heard some news regarding Timothy. He's going to be released from prison in two weeks. Isn't that a relief? His sentence got downgraded to a-hundred-and-fifty hours of public service. He must have convinced those son's a bitches' that he was learning from his mistakes!"

Millhouse looked up at Harry, who was grinning with delight.

"Timothy's your cousin, right?"

"Yep."

Harry nodded, staring at the back of Bart's head as if he could see through it.

Bart sighed, shifting on the cold metal of the table he was sitting on. He had to say something positive to Harry. What Harry's cousin did to wind up in prison was not worthy of a lighter sentence, but Timothy was of good use to the boys in this group. He was a bit of a drug mule, and Bart bought his best smokes from Timothy. He missed those smokes. Hand-rolled, stuffed to the brim, crisp and smooth down the throat. That was the good stuff Bart missed. Though, he couldn't get excited about anything in that moment. He had to force it.

"Good. That's good to hear, Harry."

Said Bart.

"Cheer up, Simpson. If you're having withdrawals from the drugs, Tim will hook you up in no time!" Harry cooed with a slap on Bart's cold back. "He'll still look out for you."

Bart began to grimace at the physical contact. The slap on his back barely warmed his skin. Nothing roused Bart. He sat still. He looked ill. Sad from within. Millhouse was growing concerned. What if his dear friend was currently delivered some bad news or something of the sort?

"You're really not yourself, Bart. Since history you've been sad."

Millhouse commented, sympathetic towards his best friend.

"Dude, it's honestly nothing. I am tired, I have a headache. I am annoyed at Homer. So, what."

Harry tutted, and decided to move on before he stepped knee deep into an argument with Bart. Bart didn't want any prying ears to hear what was really bugging him. When Harry was clear of the two. boys, Millhouse took the opportunity to sit next to Bart on the table, flinching at first as his backside met the ice-cold metal. Bart rolled his eyes with a stupid smirk on his face.

"I know you're feeling crappy, Bart."

Bart inhaled as he turned his head to his best friend and raised an eyebrow. How did he know him so well? Why was he still around? Through all the dramas and arguments, his good old Millhouse managed to remain by his side. Like dog shit stuck to velcro, as he had heard Nelson say once, Bart just couldn't get rid of Millhouse. Nothing washed him away. Nothing repelled him. No fight or dispute. For that, Bart would never stop being grateful for that blue-haired loser.

"I got my psychologist tomorrow. That's what I am bummed about."

Admitted Bart.

Millhouse smiled; he knew it. Just as he suspected.

"Don't skip it, Bart. You know how helpful those appointments are to you. I've told you about how helpful my psychologist was when my parents split up."

Bart nodded. Millhouse was right, again. Bart did need to speak to someone. He needed to get his issues off his chest on the weekly. He was hanging on by threads in school and would take any excuse to drop out. His psychologist tightened those strings and eliminated the slack. Bart wanted to wander the streets buying drugs and live off of his mate's couches. Bart's psychologist was good enough to guilt him out of those aspirations, if you could call them that. This week, however, Bart had no interest in showing up to anybody's appointments. He was in a rut.

Millhouse began to unpack his lunch, fiddling with the clingfilm on his wrap like he was solving a puzzle. The other kids in the group were quieter now; most were hoeing into their lunches and the others were staring into space, high enough on weed that they could continue on during the day and not be busted by the teachers. Bart pulled out his phone again, and aimlessly began flipping between his home screen and various apps.

"Should I call back and say I have something on? I gotta get this history assignment over and done with. I'll say that I am falling… I'll say that I'm screwed… something." Bart pondered to himself.

"I'm still coming over tomorrow afternoon to help you, right?"

Asked Millhouse and he unsheathed his salad wrap.

"Yeah, so I'll tell Ben I have something urgent on."

Ben was the name of Bart's psychologist. A pleasant man on the outside, late thirties and in good physical shape. Ben had known Bart for a number of years now. Since the age of twelve, Bart turned to Ben in an attempt to work on his social anxiety disorder and his overall depression. A few things added to the reasons why Bart was suffering from these disorders, but the one thing in his mind, nestled deep in his paranoia and trauma from his childhood, was a figure from his past. A reserved, psychotic, relentless and spineless man. Somebody that dug up dread when recalled. Somebody that Bart suspected was sliding through every shadow he saw. Somebody equipped with many deadly skills in the medium of murder. This was the song that this red crow sang. The song of death. Bart's song.

Ben was the only adult, besides his parents and the Springfield police department, who knew how deeply affected Bart was by his enemy. Bart and Ben's connection was deep. Deep enough that they overstepped the boundaries of doctor and patient. Ben was Bart's mentor. He was Bart's guardian angel. Even a father figure, one that Bart chose to replace his biological dad with. What was truly upsetting Bart, was the news he knew he needed to deliver to Ben tomorrow at his appointment.

To Bart's eternal shame, he had had a moment of weakness. Inside his wardrobe, tucked carefully behind a loose panel of wood in the framework, Bart had a small white package of cocaine. When had he got it? He had long forgotten. His go-to stress relevant was inhaled and quickly, it turned into a bad experience. Bart became agitated. He was pacing his room and getting blood over his sleeves when he wiped his nose. Lisa had just so happened to come home from a friend's house not twenty minutes after Bart had snorted his cocaine stash. Lisa knew right away from Bart's clammy skin and bloody nose that he had abused drugs.

"You told us you were clean!"

Lisa screamed from the doorframe.

Bart whipped his head around to face her and flew off the handles immediately. He began making excuses as to why he was taking the drug again. They fell flat.

"It's this fucking assignment!" Bart shouted, holding a bundle of papers up to the ceiling. "I have had enough. I'm this close to putting a bullet through my school bag and then through myself!"

"Don't say that, Bart! I can't believe you lied to us! What is Mum going to say? Dad's going to kill you!"

Bart's blood pressure was rising. He stared at Lisa, stared at her sharply, and clenched his jaw with fury. Before Lisa could make her way to their landline phone, Bart ripped the papers from the air and began to destroy them in his hands. His assignment that Lisa had helped him with for the past week. The one that was due this Friday. It was being crumpled and chewed and torn apart before her eyes.

"Fuck you, Bart! I helped you! You're a junkie brat! I hate you!"

Lisa screamed, storming off with burning eyes as her hard work and sisterly love was being undone before her eyes.

The act was so violent, Lisa locked herself in her room and took the phone with her. She called Marge, and then Homer. Bart was in big trouble, yet again. That night was not unlike the others that Bart was used to. Before Marge and Homer could come home to punish him, Bart grabbed his wallet and stormed down the stairs, out the front door. He wouldn't be seen until later the next morning. That bad experience with cocaine was only two days ago.

Millhouse looked down at Bart's pale hands, noticing the LCD on Bart's smartphone had new cracks across its face. That was not good. Bart seemed to be unable to afford the repair. He knew why, but it hurt to realise why.

"Does Ben charge you if you cancel too late? My psychologist used to do that."  
Asked Millhouse.

Bart shook his head.

"Nah. He's never done that."

With a sigh, Bart stretched his spine and loosened his shoulders, propping both elbows on his evenly spaced knees. He was having second thoughts. Bart was a tough kid and never let anybody change his mind for him, but for a tough kid, Bart could be persuaded by guilt. He felt guilt whenever he missed appointments. It wasn't a regular occurrence, but he didn't want to fall behind on seeing Ben. Ben had an aura about him that was inviting. He didn't take Bart too seriously when they spoke about subjects that were confronting or disturbing. When the time came to be serious, they were serious. Ben also knew he could be playful and relatable to Bart. It was what helped the boy open up like a flower. Ben had that control over Bart, it was like a magician casting spells on his willing participant.

"What the hell. I'll go. If it means I don't have to be home for another two hours after class, so what."

Millhouse smiled and took a chunk out of his wrap. With a mouthful, he chuckled and said, "You don't have to run it by me, I'm not your Mom."

Bart huffed.

"It's good to talk out loud sometimes, man! I'm usually ignoring all these assholes like I'm being paid to do it. They don't get it, Millhouse. I am so fucked up by what's happened to me. School is crushing me. My family hate me…" He looked at Millhouse, "and you're all I got left. So, I am definitely fucking doomed."

Millhouse used his free hand to shove Bart in the elbow, and the two boys chuckled like goofy clowns. It was so bittersweet. Bart was being humorous again. It had been a long time coming. Above those dark, veiny black bags, Bart's eyes were still full of his childhood innocence. If Millhouse looked close enough, he could see that spikey-haired, ten-year-old git that he wished would come visit again soon. That nuisance, that cool kid, that class clown he couldn't exist without.

Millhouse saw Bart trapped in there, in his dark blue eyes, not knowing how to climb out of those teenage blues. It was sobering, and it was sad. Millhouse could only smile at the young man in front of him and be thankful that he was still around. There had been times when Bart could very easily have stopped coming to school and disappeared forever. One way or the other. If Bart's attempts at self-harm weren't enough, another man from Bart's past could have done the job with little effort.

That man was free in the world at this very moment. Nobody really knew where, and nobody asked for his address. When he was released from prison, Springfield's chief of police swept him under the rug, figured he would be less of a problem if he went on his own way, deep into the woods of society, never to return.

But he _was_ soon to return. His next visit was well overdue. This lone wolf was growing bored of his pack. He was craving the return to his old stomping grounds. He wished to be back in the swing of Springfield. He wondered who he would find. He pondered on what was next for his future. He swore to attend to all of his unfinished businesses, whatever they may be.

Sideshow Bob was soon to grace Bart's nightmares, once more. It was sooner than anybody guessed.


End file.
